


Minutes

by rei_c



Series: Otherside [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-23
Updated: 2007-07-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He saw the way Sam smiled when he asked that last, inane question and it was the smile of a man who has plans and will do anything to see them achieved, might even be halfway there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutes

Dean listens to what Sam tells him and then thinks about it all the way back to the motel. It's not a long drive, not really, but Dean takes it slow and uses the time to try and understand everything Sam's said, tries to make sense of the basic ritual Sam had explained and what's supposed to happen if they perform it. Dean's never really liked rituals, doesn't trust them, but Sam sounds blithe and easy about this one and Dean can't deny that Sam has more practical experience with runes than anyone else Dean's met, including, he's pretty sure, Josiah. 

Dean pulls into the lot in front of the motel and parks a couple spaces down from the truck, safer that way, until he finds out what John's said about who he's travelling with or what the sleeping situation is going to be. He turns the Impala off and waits a beat, not sure why or what for, before getting out and standing for a second at the side of his car, one hand on the hood, feeling her cool down. The creak of the passenger door opening and closing has Dean turning to look, and Sam stretches and gives Dean a glimpse of his tanned stomach and the tattoo around his navel; when Dean looks away, he can feel Sam's eyes on him. 

Neither of them say anything, though, and as Dean goes over to his father's door, Sam follows and stands there with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and warm, so warm next to Dean. Dean knocks—two seconds later, John opens up and drops another key in Dean's hand. 

He doesn't ask about whatever it was they saw or didn't, doesn't ask why they took so long, just looks them both over and nods once when he sees that they're both all right. "Two rooms," he says, gruff, shrugging when he sees the looks on their faces. "Right next door. Get some sleep; we'll be up early in the morning." John doesn't say anything about the separate rooms and neither does Sam, but Dean thinks that their father's wary of pushing Sam too far too fast and this is his offer of a compromise. At least, Dean hopes that's what this is all about. 

Sam must either share Dean's thoughts or understand John's words to mean something else conciliatory, Dean thinks, because he says, "Thank you," in a soft voice that Dean doesn't trust one bit and then asks, "If I go out and pick up coffee in the morning, do you still take yours the same?" 

"Yeah," John says, clearly surprised and very obvious about how pleased the offer makes him. "You remember that?"

"Remember a lot of things," Sam says, and if John missed the shadow in Sam's eyes, Dean's not going to point it out. 

\--

John's gotten them two queens even though a king would've been cheaper and, not for the first time, Dean wonders what his father knows or has guessed. Still, this is standard for them, has been ever since Sam grew overnight and whoever was sharing the bed with him couldn't ignore the kicking, so maybe John _doesn't_ know. Dean's getting a headache from trying to out-think his father, not that he's ever been able to do that before.

Sam takes a long shower, then comes out of the bathroom followed by a billow of steam, not a stitch of clothing on him. Dean's mouth can't decide whether to dry up or water, so he settles for saying, "You'll have to be quiet. Dad's next door." 

"Never stopped us before," Sam says with a careless shrug, though he turns the television on and makes sure the volume's loud enough to cover any inadvertent noises. He sits down on the bed next to Dean, one knee on the mattress, the other foot planted on the floor, and smiles wickedly. Sam starts to nose at Dean's neck, fingers making quick work of the button on Dean's jeans. "Don't you remember, Dean? All those years, and Dad in the next room, or outside, or just around the corner? Here I thought you _liked_ it that way." 

He pauses, takes a moment to nibble on Dean's ear while Dean slides out of his jeans and boxers, bites down hard before Dean leans away to pull his shirt over his head. Just when he's about to say something else, Dean turns, places one hand over Sam's mouth, and says, "Don't talk. Put your mouth to better use." 

Sam nods, grins in a sly, subtle manner that sends blood rushing to Dean's cock, and pulls his entire body onto the bed, slides backwards, until he's on his hands and knees, teeth playing with the trail of hair leading down to Dean's cock. Sam swipes his tongue out to taste the skin and makes a pleased noise; Dean curls his hands into Sam's hair, pushes his brother's mouth downwards, gripping tight enough, he thinks, to border on painful. Sam looks up at him, eyes laughing, and opens his mouth.

It hasn't been an hour since he'd pushed Sam onto his knees and fucked his brother's mouth, hasn't been much longer since he'd fucked Sam into the Impala, but Dean's hard, almost painfully so. Sam's on all fours, on the bed, ass high and tight, skin just barely brushing against the headboard with every sway of Sam's hips, while his head's low, sucking on Dean's cock like he's trying to suck out Dean's spine. For all that Dean does nothing but sit there and runs his hands through his brother's hair, it might be working. 

Sam eases off with a wet pop that makes Dean's ears ring and looks up, smirk on his face, ignores Dean's command from earlier to murmur, "You wanna come down my throat or up my ass, Dean? All over my face? Mark me so everyone knows I belong to you?" He pauses, eyes drilling into Dean's, then adds, slightly louder, "Or will you share me around? Ever think about fucking me while someone else has their dick down my throat? Ever wanna listen to me beg because someone else is balls-deep in my ass?"

The tone of Sam's voice runs fingers through Dean's nerves, words weaving a seductive counterpoint that angers Dean but is turning him on harder than he would've thought possible. The mental image of Sam in the middle, filled up at both ends, forced into silence, into compliance, floods through his mind and brands itself on the inside of his eyelids. Dean hates himself for it and there's only one redeeming factor he can find: that other person Sam's conjuring up has no face, no voice, is nothing more than a random, blurry idea of a figure. 

Dean sees red, feels the blood pounding through his body, and he moves, yanking Sam's hair and shoving down hard until Sam's cheek is pressed into the mattress and there are tear tracks making their way over the bridge of Sam's nose. He doesn't know who he should be more pissed off at but his cock's hard and leaking; he knows how this is supposed to end and he's not going to stop it from happening, not with the way he's feeling, like he has to make Sam hurt, has to make Sam take it back, has to make Sam _pay_.

" _Mine_ ," Dean snarls, and turns them both so that Sam's holding on to the headboard with white knuckles and Dean's fucking in and out of Sam's ass with rough, punishing thrusts, in mere seconds. He isn't using a condom and he didn't use lube, but Sam's stretched open, slick inside and tight, and Dean doesn't really care what Sam got up to in the shower -- _without you, doesn't need you, prove he needs you_ \-- not with the way Sam's gripping him, fucking back, rough inhales and pleading exhales. 

"Better each time, isn't it," Sam pants out, head thrown back so Dean can see the long line of Sam's throat, unmarked, unblemished. He thinks about buying a collar -- _Sam's not human, don't remind anyone, can't tell Dad_ \-- or ripping open Sam's throat until it scars in the shape of Dean's teeth. "Can't get enough of me, can you, Dean? Can't get enough and can't mark me to last, no way everyone will know, is there? Wish you. _Fuck_ , yeah, do that again, c'mon. Wish you could get it to last, don't you? You'd burn your name into my skin if you could, wouldn't you, Dean? Brand me and mark me as yours?"

Dean growls, moves one hand and scratches Sam's hip, right over the binding rune, deep enough to draw blood. The smell hits the air, makes Sam mewl, shudder, and when he talks again, it's lazier, languorous. Dean matches his rhythm to Sam's tone, calmer, intent on pleasure now and not pain, nearing on gentle almost as if he's apologising. 

"Fuck me good, Dean, come on," Sam says, breath caught and voice low, smoky. "Show me you can still fuck me better than the rest, yeah, like that, like _that_ , god. Fuck your good little whore, your good little slut of a baby brother. Make me come, Dean, wanna come with you still inside." 

"Shut up," Dean whispers, pausing to change his position and leaning forward just long enough to taste the sweat pooling in the small of Sam's back, bitter and tart. His fingers tighten on Sam's hips, slip in the blood on one side, and the bond between them shivers as Sam does something, twisting or turning it, Dean can't decide. Dean lifts his fingers -- _blood, his blood, he belongs to you, your blood, hurt yourself when you hurt him_ \-- to his mouth and licks them clean, plants them back on Sam’s hip, fingertips pressing against healed skin, holding tight. "Shut up, Sam. I don't. Don't wanna hear about the others, not anymore. You're not a. Not a whore. You're mine. _Mine_." 

Sam turns his head, just enough so that Dean can see the curve of his cheekbone, the plane of his nose, and the angle of his smile. "And what do I get, Dean?" he asks, hips gyrating to take Dean's breath away. "If I'm yours, what belongs to me?" 

"Me," Dean says, and spills inside of his brother. Sam's smile changes as he arches his back like a cat and paints the headboard with his come; a moment later, the bond between them settles, humming with drowsy satisfaction. Sam doesn't bother to clean up, just pulls the bedspread down, flips the pillows over, and curls up. Dean follows suit, snagging the remote off of the nightstand between the beds and clicking the television off, catching a glimpse of liquid -- _yours, he's yours, that's yours, always yours_ \-- leaking out of Sam's hole as he does. 

He might feel happier about the way Sam's burrowing into him if he hadn't seen the way Sam smiled when he asked that last, inane question. Far from being happy, from being well-fucked and about to come again, it was the smile of a man who has plans and will do anything to see them achieved, might even be halfway there. 

Knowing what Sam's been capable of in dealing with him, thinking of the few things Liam said, remembering what Frankie looked like when Dean had gone back there the last time, he doesn't feel reassured by the salt at door and windows, by the runes taped all over the place, by the iron and steel they have scattered across the other bed and the floor. Sam's not human, but _Christo_ doesn't work on him, salt doesn't keep him in, and steel around his wrists does nothing except make him purr.

Sam falls asleep but Dean stays awake, thinking about what his brother said in Connor's house, that Dean doesn't know what Sam's done, that Dean might change his mind about all of this if he did. He wonders if he should ask, if he even wants to know, and then decides that he doesn't care, that this is _Sam_ and they're bound together by blood, no more, no less.

It isn't very reassuring. Sleep doesn't come for a long time.

\--

Dean wakes up alone. He panics for the time it takes to sit up, see that Sam's left his things strewn all over the place, has cleaned off the headboard and mussed up the covers on the other bed, pillow dented as if it's been slept on with a few stray hairs lying about, and realises that Sam's covering their tracks better than Dean ever could. 

He showers, tries to relax, but his shoulders don't release their tension until he hears Sam call out that he's back and has coffee. Dean hurries after that, finishes rinsing his hair and ignores his dick, more awake than the rest of him, as he steps out of the shower. He's almost done when Sam opens the bathroom door, comes in, closes it behind him, and drops to his knees, easy-as-you-please. 

Dean sputters as Sam wraps his lips around Dean's cock, then groans as Sam gets to work, teasing and slurping and licking, a hint of teeth one second, more suction the next, and it doesn't seem as if it's been more than two minutes before Dean's slumped against the wall, knees weak, trying to catch his breath. 

Sam looks up at him, wipes a drop of come off of his cheek and licks it up, tongue darting out, small strokes. He doesn't wash his face when he stands, just leans forward, presses his lips to Dean's and murmurs, "Good morning," before disappearing back out into the room. "Dad's already up," Sam calls out from around the corner. "Said we had half an hour to get ready when I took him his coffee. Want me to grab you some clothes?"

Dean stares at the door, then down at his dick, then back at the door. He licks his lips and tastes himself; Dean can't complain, but he has no idea what the hell is going on.


End file.
